


I'm Yours, Always

by teenage_hustler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Incest, Infidelity, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 15:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenage_hustler/pseuds/teenage_hustler
Summary: When the two of you first kissed, you were dared to do it. Since then, things between you have never been the same.I originally wrote this for 2011's Next Gen Fest on Livejournal, and I have to say, I think it's one of the best fics I've written to date. It's not long, and I wrote it, I remember, on an overnight bus travelling from Tokyo to Hiroshima. The original prompt was this: “The first time was because X dared them to kiss, each and every time after that was because they just couldn't stop”. It was the sort of prompt that lent itself well to a taboo relationship, and I'd been wanting to explore incest in my writing for a while. There's something I find weirdly fascinating about it as a taboo topic. This fic is necessarily more serious than what I usually write, but I hope you give it a whirl regardless.





	I'm Yours, Always

When the two of you first kissed, you were dared to do it. It was an informal 5-year Hogwarts reunion, and your mates thought it would be hilarious to see two people related to each other snog. Clearly it had been very funny indeed, because your mates were laughing about it for the rest of the evening. You did not find it particularly amusing, however. You were disturbed. The funny thing was that you were not as disturbed by the kissing itself as by your reaction to it. You spent the rest of the evening recalling the feel of her lips on yours, her hands lightly stroking your impossibly curly hair, the smell of her shampoo – subtle yet overpowering – and you cannot help yourself; you’re turned on by it. By her. 

One week of agonising hell later, you finally visit her. It is the first time in the literal lifetime that you’ve known each other that you’ve gone for so long without seeing her. She tells you, in her typically reasonable way, that both of you would do best to just forget about it. You agree, but how are you supposed to forget about something you cannot seem to stop thinking about? Barely a minute passes, and she has suddenly yelled out a loud and heartfelt “Fuck it!” and pushed you against her front door. A bruising pain flows down your spine and you angrily ask her what the hell she is doing. She says she cannot forget it, and suddenly she is kissing you again. Before the thought of stopping her enters your mind, you are hungrily kissing her back. You feel her tugging at your shirt, and you help her with it. 

Afterwards, as you lie with her, it occurs to you that you should feel guilty, or sick or disgusted, or at least as disturbed as you had been all week, at what you have just done. However, you feel nothing remotely kin to disgust or guilt. You instead feel satiated and satisfied, and closer to her than ever before (and you have always been incredibly close). You wonder if there is anything inherently wrong with you for thinking that.

Your lives go on. You are an assistant at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and she is a Junior Healer at St Mungo’s. She starts going out with an old acquaintance from Hogwarts days, and you become quite enamoured with one of the part-time assistants at the shop. She starts moving up the ranks at the hospital, you start creating your own products for the shop, utilising the knowledge about Muggle artefacts you have acquired from your much-loved Grandpa Weasley. In every way you both are moving forward. And yet, at least once a week you find time to spend with each other. You also go to each other when something is bothering you.

~*~

“Hugo, Derek wants to get married.”

“Oh right? Is that bad? Here, I’ll do that. This belt buckle is tricky.”

“Oh, all right then. Well, I don’t know. I’m not really sure if I’m ready to commit to anybody in that way – oh, oh Merlin … right there …”

~*~

“I think … oh, fuck … I think Uncle George wants me to go and run the Hogsmeade shop.”

“Really? Well that wouldn’t … wouldn’t be … so bad, would it? You could just … ahh … Apparate … back, every night, right?”

“I could, yeah, but … it’s long hours … and I want to be close to Chrissy … and you. Oh Merlin, Lils! I’m so close!”

~*~

“I’m pregnant.”

“Huh … so does that mean we won’t have to use the Contraceptive Charm for a while?”

~*~

“We know that this one isn’t mine either, right?”

“Believe me, Hugo. If it were yours, my morning sickness wouldn’t be anywhere near this awful. Morning sickness is caused by the baby being half the father, as in, half completely foreign DNA. Since a lot of our DNA is the same, it kind of makes sense that as much of this kid is foreign as possible.”

“Hmm. Probably a good thing. We wouldn’t want the kid to have three eyes, or whatever. Plus, Derek would probably be kind of pissed to hear that you shag your cousin. Did you want to shag now, by the way?”

“Yeah, actually, if you don’t mind? I need to distract myself from the morning sickness.”

“As long as you don’t throw up on me.”

~*~

You both tried stopping, several times, in the early days. Not because either of you really wanted to stop, and you really were not that worried about someone finding out. It was more the perceived ‘wrongness’ of it all that gave you both pause. There were stories, particularly in the Wizarding world, about people related to each other shacking up. In the Wizarding world this was to preserve the bloodline, of course, but in modern times it was considered uncivilised and unnatural, and you both admit to having felt uncivilised and unnatural during those early days whenever you let yourselves think too much about it. But when you are together it feels like the most natural thing in the world. And so, attempts at trying to stop never last long.

“Fuck what the world says,” she says to you, the final time you suggest stopping. “Fuck all of that. I know that this is right. You know that this is right. That’s all that matters, Hugo. It’s all that’s ever mattered.”

You both get married to your respective partners, have children, and raise them. She becomes Head Healer at the Magical Maladies section of St Mungo’s. You become the owner of the Hogsmeade branch of Wheezes. You both enter your late thirties wealthy and successful. You love your wife and children, and she loves hers. And you continue to love each other as well, because that is what you have always done.

When Grandpa Arthur dies, you feel like your world has gone topsy-turvy. You were his favourite grandson, and you loved him more than most other people in the world. Your dad insists that you take the week until the funeral off, and you spend it with Grandma Weasley, helping her organise everything, forcing yourself not to react whenever you see one of Grandpa’s toy cars or Australian plugs. It is the first time since the week after you and she first kissed, that you have not seen her for that long a time.

The funeral is held at the local cemetery. You present a eulogy, along with Grandma Weasley. You see your wife and children a few rows back, watching you. Your wife’s face is anxious. She is worried about you. Your gaze shifts to the other side of the audience and land on her, sitting with her husband and children. She is watching you too, but her eyes are not tense at all. When those eyes meet yours, she gives you a sad smile. She understands how you feel, completely. You finish your eulogy aching for her; aching to feel her close to you.

When everybody returns to the Burrow, you feel her touch your arm. You excuse yourself and walk outside with her. She looks around, and then pulls you into the broom shed. She _Lumos_ es her wand alight and looks into your confused eyes.

“You need me,” she tells him simply. “Take me.”

You do not need to be told twice. Immediately you push her against the splintery wooden wall, grabbing at her hair as you force your tongue into her mouth. In retrospect you are treating her incredibly roughly, but judging by her response, which is to whimper and claw frantically at your trousers, it seems obvious that she does not have a problem with it. You rip only the necessary garments off each other, and you vaguely hear her dress tear as you force her legs apart. You turn her around so she is facing the wall and take her from behind, pushing into her with more force than you’ve used before. You grip her hips, so hard you are sure you’ll leave bruises, and you slam into her, over and over, until you lose all control and climax with a yell. Amazingly, despite you having done nothing to assist in her pleasure, she climaxes soon after.

As your breathing slows and you both come back to Earth, as it were, you hear a horrible, breathy, hopeless sobbing reverberating all over the surprisingly spacious shed. Your hands are shaking, and after a few moments you realise that the horrible sobbing is coming from you.

Your eyes squeeze shut, and the pain of what you have lost, that you have not allowed yourself to feel at all, finally reaches you. It clutches at your heart, and the intensity of it is such that you cannot breathe.

And then you feel arms – warm, soft, oh-so-familiar arms – wrap around you. A head nestles against your chest, and you smell that same flowery shampoo that you have obtained comfort from for fifteen years now. A hand strokes your curly hair. You are surrounded by her – her in all her wonderfulness – and the pain you feel is bearable again.

“Shh,” she whispers, her arms tightening around you. 

“I miss him, Lils,” you manage to croak out.

“I know, Hugo,” she replies, her voice wobbling slightly, “me too.”

You are pretty sure that Rose knows. You do not know how, exactly, Rose would have found out, since you operate so secretly that for anybody to find out for sure would require some fairly detailed detective work. You suspect that it is one of those all-too-common cases where Rose “just knows”, like the time when you were children and Rose “just knew” that you had stolen money from your mum’s purse. Or the time when you were in first year and Rose “just knew” that you were being bullied for your strange hair, because Merlin knew you had not told anybody. But there is something about the way Rose looks at you when you happen to mention her, or the way Rose would say “oh, really?” when you say that you have just gone to or come from her house, that makes you suspect. If Rose does know, she never approaches either of you, or anybody else about it. Considering how Rose has always been a right tattletale, you are not sure why she has not said anything. But Rose is a very smart woman, and you think, or rather you hope, that Rose might just understand why you do what you do.

You never feel like you are cheating on your wife. It is strange, you suppose, that you do not consider it cheating. But in another way it is not strange at all. For one thing, you started your dance with her long before your wife had even expressed an interest in your personal style of Tango, so if anything you are cheating on her with your wife. But mainly it is because she is a completely separate entity to your wife. Your wife is your romantic love, the mother of your children, the one you think about during Valentine’s Day and sit next to at other people’s weddings. She, on the other hand, is your best friend. She is your support, your guide, and the one who keeps you together when you occasionally feel like you are falling apart. The love you feel for her overwhelms you sometimes, but it never feels like a romantic love to you. It is, instead, the love of incredible closeness; a love that, you suppose, not many people get to experience, and that you experience only with her. It is the love you feel in knowing that, whatever else might happen in your life, she will always be there.

When Uncle George dies, you and everybody around you is upset, but not exactly surprised, or even entirely sad. You loved Uncle George, and he was a smart, funny, caring man. But, according to your dad, ever since Uncle Fred died a part of Uncle George had been missing; a part that nobody, not even Aunty Angelina, had since been able to replace. You know exactly what your dad means, because it is exactly how you would feel if she were to die before you. Sometimes you selfishly hope that out of the two of you, you are the one that dies first. Or perhaps not, because maybe, just maybe, Uncle George has been re-united with Uncle Fred once again.

At the reading of the will it is announced that the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes business has been bequeathed to you. You turn to your father in surprise, and he smiles back at you and says he’s getting too old for the store, and you are the one who somehow inherited the ‘Wheezes gene’. You laugh, and feel tears of surprise and gratitude towards Uncle George fill your eyes. She happens to be sitting next to you, and gives your hand a squeeze. 

“I think Grandpa would be proud,” she whispers to you.

You smile and squeeze her hand back.

She visits you after the funeral, when you have gone to the Diagon Alley shop to look around and contemplate. It is not long until you are pulling her upstairs, stopping several times along the way to kiss her. You are surprised, in retrospect, that you make it into the old bedroom you used when you were eighteen and had just started working there.

“You know something funny?” she asks, after. She’s playing with a lock of your hair, her head resting on your naked chest.

“What?”

“Today is the 20th anniversary of that first time we kissed.”

“Really? Has it really been twenty years?” Sparing a moment to think about it, you realise she’s right. You were both 23 years old then, and you are both 43 years old now. The passing of time can be seen slightly in the deepening laugh lines on her face, and the slight greying of your hair. But still, you are the same Hugo and Lily. No amount of time, it seems, will change that.

“Do you ever think we’ll stop doing this?” she asks.

You shrug. “Dunno. Maybe when your tits hang so low that I can’t lift them anymore, or when I’m extremely fat and so riddled with osteoporosis that the very idea of maintaining a boner makes my real bones shriek with pain.”

She laughs, but you feel her stiffen with uncertainty.

“Hey,” you say, laying a hand on her head, “as long as we both feel it’s okay, we’ll keep doing what we do. This is how we work, Lils. And even if we stop doing this, I’ll still be here. I’m your support. Don’t ever forget that.”

You feel her relax, and she pulls your head down to kiss you. You kiss her back, and at that moment, like every time you are with her, you feel complete. 

“I’m yours too, Hugo,” she whispers. “Always.”


End file.
